


Bite your lip (and think of me)

by dishonestdreams



Series: 100 Fandoms [5]
Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: Abduction, Biting, Blood Drinking, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Mindfuck, Restraints, Sexual Assault, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: In the aftermath, Karen runs.  She doesn't run far enough.
Relationships: Deacon Frost/Karen Jenson
Series: 100 Fandoms [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1450570
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Scribblers' 100 Fandoms Challenge





	Bite your lip (and think of me)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the first movie and inspired by [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168359), which made me want to try my own spin on the concept. Clearly the world needs more fucked up interactions between these two.
> 
> Do heed the warnings, and enter at your own risk...
> 
> Also claimed as the next entry in my 100 fandoms challenge

In the aftermath Karen takes a leave of absence from work.

No-one expresses any surprise or objection to her request. The hospital administrators are coolly supportive of her decision, her close colleagues more genuinely so. The prevailing story around the wards is still that she was attacked and then abducted by some psychopath, who has since managed to elude the police. Karen imagines that the tale becomes more lurid with every retelling, her injuries more graphic and her assailant more terrifying. She’s seen the sympathy and the fear in the eyes of every person she’s spoken to, underpinned by a morbid curiosity. There have been questions of course; not-so-subtle probes about what happened to her and how she managed to escape relatively unscathed, but Karen has thus far managed to deflect them all with a nauseating performance of distress and fear and horror.

Now, in the aftermath, the horror isn’t so difficult to fake.

There’s no question in her mind that her leave of absence will become a permanent one. With Whistler dead and Blade gone (overseas somewhere, Karen thinks, although he was predictably elusive during that last, brief conversation), there’s nothing for her to stay in the city for, and she’s painfully aware of how much she could potentially lose by being here. She knows she has a little time; Frost’s destruction and the deaths of the twelve have left a power vacuum at the top of the vampire community, but Karen is not so naïve as to think that they have been driven from the city. Vampires aren’t so different to humans; vacuums exist to be filled and Karen doesn’t doubt that once the disarray has settled and new leadership has been established, there will be enough vampires interested in finding her that staying put would be little more than suicide.

Or perhaps something worse, but Karen chooses not to think about that. She wants to live.

She’s thankful that she only rents her apartment. Her qualifications and experience make it relatively easy to find employment elsewhere and then it’s just a case of finding a new place to live, giving notice and surrendering her tenancy. The whole process takes a little under two months and then Karen is established in a new city. New life, new self, with only the marks on her neck and the scars on her psyche to remind her of the mess she left behind. Karen finds herself a therapist, books in weekly sessions and talks at length about her attack, her abduction and Curtis without ever mentioning vampires, ghouls, blood gods or the sensation of dying one slow suck at a time. She already knows how that would sound and she has no particular urge to get herself committed.

The sessions cost a hefty chunk of her paycheck and do nothing to assuage the nightmares that plague her night after night. Dreams of bloodied smiles and burning red eyes, darkness and falling and death that never fail to lurch her out of sleep, panting and sweating and sometimes with an aborted scream choking her throat. Therapy, it turns out, is a lot less effective than advertised when she spends all her time lying to her therapist. 

Despite this though, it’s all terribly _easy_. If anyone had asked Karen, on _that_ night, her clothes stained and her veins drained, whether she’d thought it was possible to go back to any sense of normality, she’d have laughed in their face. Deep underground, with the acrid burn of dusted vampire on her tongue and the cloying smell of blood god in her nostrils, even the idea of normality had seemed ludicrous. Yet here she is. She volunteers for the shifts no-one else wants, goes to work and does her job. She comes home, eats her meals and waters her plants. She keeps herself to herself and, apart from her weekly sessions, avoids any type of routine commitments. It’s all terribly mundane. It’s terribly, _beautifully_ safe.

That’s probably why it feels like such a betrayal when she comes home one night to find her apartment ransacked.

Karen stands in the doorway, fingers wrapped around the doorjamb tightly enough for the rough edges digging into her palms to actually hurt, and just looks, letting herself take in the mess. Whoever did this has done a real number on her place - everything that could be opened has had its contents tipped across the floor, everything that couldn’t has been systematically ripped apart. The whole scene is one of carnage that sets an uneasy pulse churning in her belly. It takes her another moment just standing there and surveying the wreckage to pinpoint what it is that’s bothering her.

There’s nothing missing. All the destruction aside, there’s not one single thing that isn’t there that should be, and she doesn’t need to check the bedroom to know that the same will be true there.

She’s walking away before she even thinks about it, the click of her heels louder than she’d like on the hallway floor, but there’s nothing she can do about that. She hasn’t even bothered to close the door, but it doesn’t matter; she already knows she won’t be back here and there’s nothing in the apartment she can’t easily replace if she needs it.

Karen’s aware it isn’t a normal reaction, even as she thumbs the call button for the elevator. Normal would be to call the police, not to start planning her escape from the city, but she can still hear Blade’s flat assertion echoing in her head - _they own the police_ \- and she doesn’t bother to reach for her cellphone. She won’t be calling the police. She won’t be calling anyone.

She half expects the doors to open on a pointed, bloodied smile, but the elevator is empty and it stays that way all the way to the lobby. Karen lets herself out of her building for the last time without even a backwards glance. She’s too busy thinking about the next steps; possible boltholes, resources, what she can get her hands on and how easily she can get it, and she makes the most rookie of mistakes. She stops paying attention.

She doesn’t have time for regret; a rough hand catches her arm as she strides past an alleyway, and a sharp, bruising tug uses her own momentum to pull her off course, swinging her into the darkness. Karen’s startled; her reactions slowed by distraction, and before she’s able to dig her heels in or lash out, there’s a sharp pinch against her neck.

Then everything goes black.

*****

The first thing Karen feels when she wakes up is an overwhelming sense of relief that she can hear her own heartbeat. She’s not dead. She’s not _undead_.

The second thing she feels is an overwhelming sense of dread that she can’t move. There’s rope biting into her wrists and her ankles, spreading her open and holding her tight against what she’s almost certain is a mattress and, this. This is not good. Her heartbeat ratchets up a notch.

“Finally,” a voice says, hatefully familiar, and Karen tugs uselessly against her restraints in an instinctive, animalistic reaction. She knows that voice. She’s woken up from more nightmares than she cares to remember with that voice ringing in her ears. It’s not _possible_ for her to be hearing that voice now, and yet. “I thought you were going to sleep all night.”

There’s movement in the corner of the room. Even in the poor light, Karen can see that this place is nothing special, just a normal room that she doesn’t recognise, bland furnishings and forgettable decoration but her attention is snagged from the décor by shifts in the dimness; one shadow detaching from the rest and solidifying into something horrifying real. Deacon Frost saunters into focus, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world, and stops when he reaches the side of the mattress. He smiles down at her.

“Nice to see you again, sweetheart.”

Karen bites down viciously on her own cheek to hold back a scream. “No,” she says, flat and ugly denial. “No. You’re dead.”

The look Deacon gives her is disdainful at best. “I’m a god, Karen,” he says, witheringly. “Do you really believe I would be _quite_ so easy to kill? Don’t play dumb, you’re smarter than that.”

Perhaps he’s right. Karen’s spent the last few months watching over her shoulder for the monsters she knows are lurking in the shadows, but perhaps it wasn’t generic monsters she was looking for. Perhaps it was one monster in particular.

Not that it seems to have mattered, in the end.

“What do you want?” she spits and Deacon throws back his head, long pale neck on display, and laughs.

“What do I want?” he echoes mockingly. “Sweetheart, I have the oldest and ugliest of motives.”

He moves quicker than her eye can parse it, and she sucks in a sharp breath as he’s suddenly there, straddling her middle. He leans forward until his nose bumps against hers, his hands palm down on the mattress either side of her head and his lips close enough that it’s almost a kiss when he says, “I want revenge.”

Karen turns her head to the side. “Blade’s gone,” she says flatly. “He doesn’t care about me. You’re wasting your time; he won’t even _know_.”

Deacon hums, his tongue flicking out to lick around the shell of her ear, and Karen shudders. “I don’t care about Blade,” he says carelessly.

Those off-hand words hit like a punch in the kidneys, and Karen’s muscles voice wordless protests when she tries to instinctively curl in herself and can’t, the ropes still holding her firm. “You expect me to believe this is about _me_? Why would you even bother?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I bother?” Deacon asks, all faux-innocence and dark amusement. “You were wasted on Blade. Should have had you on my side. I’m not planning on making that mistake a second time.”

Karen presses her lips together in a tight line. “You’re like a spoilt child,” she says, as calmly as she can muster. “I told you no. That answer hasn’t changed, and you can’t turn me. You might as well just kill me and get it over with.”

“Because of your little _cure_?” Deacon spits out the word like it’s something foul-tasting, and Karen flinches at the flecks of spittle that scatter over her skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sitting back on his heels to stare down at her and Karen’s attention is drawn, despite herself, to the crimson flecks still discolouring his eyes.

“I beat Blade,” he says, softly. “I had him. I _saw_ him. He was broken.” He lifts his hand to her cheek, trailing his fingers across her skin and brushing her hair away from her face in a mockery of intimacy, and Karen shudders. “But _you_. You never broke. Even when I threw you into that pit, you couldn’t be a good girl and just die quietly. You just had to crawl back out, all self-sacrificing and noble, and fuck everything up.”

Karen knows her smile is more teeth than humour. “I did what needed to be done. I’d do it again.”

“Then you’ll understand my position,” Deacon tells her, and Karen narrows her eyes.

“I doubt it,” she says, “But sure. Let’s entertain your megalomaniacal tendencies. Please, do tell me your nefarious plan.”

Pain blooms across her cheek as he slaps her lazily. “Play nice, Karen. You should be grateful that I’m going to give you a choice rather than just killing you outright.”

Karen feels her heart stutter a beat at that, her pulse spiking, because there is no possibility that this is going to be a choice she’ll relish. Given how Deacon’s mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk, she suspects he felt it as clearly as she did. “Fine,” she says tightly. “What are my options?”

Deacon brushes his thumb over her cheek, leaving Karen’s skin crawling in his wake. “I’m going to bite you,” he says calmly, “Not enough for an immediate transformation, but more than enough to guarantee it eventually. Then you can choose between turning, as my fledgling, or taking your precious cure.”

Which sounds like a fool’s choice, so clearly Karen is missing something. She gives him a searching look, but his expression is enigmatic, and she can’t get a read on what he’s thinking. That leaves only one, unpalatable option if she wants to know.

“And if I choose the cure?” she asks.

Deacon’s smile spreads, just enough to flash a hint of teeth. “Then tomorrow, you’ll choose again.”

It’s not an idle threat; that’s immediately, blindingly obvious. He’s genuine in his intent, and what he’s proposing makes Karen’s chest seize. It’s a concentrated attack on her defences, day after day after day, a systematic wearing down of everything that makes her who she is until she acquiesces to what he wants her to become. She stares at him, horror mounting in her chest and a nauseating churn in her stomach. “Oh my god, you’re _serious_? You can’t- that’s _barbaric_.”

“Barbaric,” Deacon says, derisively. “You’re pathetic. You humans couldn’t possibly comprehend the horrors of _true_ barbarism. You wouldn’t even survive the aftermath, and yet you bleat like panicked sheep at the faintest hint of something that offends your delicate sensibilities.”

God, she hates him. “Get fucked,” Karen says, flatly.

Deacon’s grin is sudden and predatory. “Not me, sweetheart. Not today. But that’s absolutely on the table if you’re interested.”

That, Karen thinks, is something of a no-brainer. “Touch me and I’ll kill you,” she says, immediately, and Deacon’s smile widens.

“You think so?” he asks, “Let’s find out.”

He’s back on her in the space of a heartbeat, too fast for her senses to process before he’s just _there_, his weight a constriction on her chest that makes breathing a panicked challenge as the sight of him fills her vision and his scent floods her nostrils. She bucks fruitlessly against the pressure; the restraints holding fast, and his strength more than a match for hers in quelling what little freedom of movement he’d left her before.

He tangles his hand in her hair, jerking her head back to expose her throat with practised ease. He lowers his own head to nose along her pulse point in a parody of a lover’s caress and she hates him, so fiercely she can it burn. And then he sinks his teeth into her throat, the opposite side to mirror Blade’s marks, and, suddenly, she doesn’t have the space to hate him anymore.

It hurts. It hurts like a son of a bitch; she can feel every slow suck like razorblades and broken glass scraping through her veins, and leaving a low, bone-deep ache behind them that intensifies with every draw. Everything in her scrambles to pull away, pull back, _escape_, except that every time Deacon pulls the blood from her, it makes something throb between her legs, a deep, heady desire that spirals up dizzyingly fast to twine with the pain in confusing and contradictory ways that leave her soaking through her panties and gasping. Her conscious mind is screaming at her to twist away, to struggle, to _fight_, but her hindbrain wants to press closer; to feel the electric tingle of his skin against hers, and the rub of his chest against her aching nipples.

It hadn’t been like this with Blade. But then, Karen realises, with the part of her mind that’s clawing desperately to a morsel of rationality, Blade wasn’t a _real_ vampire. The thought is terrifying, briefly, before it’s drowned out under another wave of desperate craving that has her writhing up against Deacon despite her better judgement.

Deacon withdraws his fangs, and lifts his head, and for a breath of a second, Karen is left feeling _empty_, before she quashes the sensation ruthlessly. It’s easier now that he’s not biting anymore, but she can still feel the echo of him in her veins, in the flush of her skin and the hammering of her heart, and she’s under no illusion that he isn’t fully aware of what he’s done to her.

As through he’s reading her mind, Deacon rolls to the side, one leg still hooked over hers, and his nose buried against her throat. He’s warm now, flush with her stolen heat, and she can feel it radiating through her clothes. 

“Still want to kill me,” he says, softly into her skin, and it isn’t a question, not really. “Or maybe something else appeals more.”

Karen bites savagely on her own cheek, a crunching sting that echoes in her ears and does nothing to take the edge off her arousal. She feels his mouth curl into a smile, startling as his fingers play across the waistband of her pants.

“Not talking, huh?” he says, with amusement, and Karen’s fingers twitch helplessly. “That’s alright; I can check for myself.” His leg over hers tightens like a vice, effectively pinning her hips to the bed, and his fingers slip under her waistband, down between her thighs to trace over the sodden cotton of her panties.

“That’s my girl,” he purrs, and Karen thrashes, or tries to, but she can’t pull free of his hold or his restraints. It’s no challenge at all for Deacon to push her panties to the side and sink two fingers knuckle-deep inside her.

He hums in satisfaction, and Karen freezes, quelling her own conflicting urges to struggle or thrust or twist away or grind through sheer force of will.

If she can’t get away, she’ll strip that satisfaction from him in whatever way she can.

Deacon tuts in reprimand. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not stupid,” he says, and despite herself, Karen _jerks_ as he scrapes his thumbnail over her clit. “You shouldn’t pick fights you can’t win. Your body knows what it wants.”

He’s right, of course he’s right, and Karen should be saving her strength and picking her battles, but she _can’t_. She wants and she doesn’t want, she yearns and she’s repulsed at the same time, and she _can’t_ give him this and still retain any sense of herself.

But every flex of his fingers is enough to send a thrill running through her, and there’s a slow-growing certainty that she’s not going to be able to hold back. She might not give him this, but he’s going to take it anyway, and there’s a part of her that’s not sure that’s any better.

“Come on, Karen,” Deacon croons, and he sweeps his thumb teasingly soft over her clit. “I’m not going to stop, so you might as well enjoy it.”

He rocks his thumb over her again, a rhythmic brush back and forth that should be too light to achieve anything, but Karen’s been balanced on the edge of unwilling orgasm for too long, and that teasing hint of consistency is enough. She involuntarily clenches, tightening around his fingers as she comes, every muscle quivering tight as her orgasm rips through her in a wave of bitter pleasure that leaves her shaking and wet-eyed in its wake.

“See,” Deacon says, cruelly reasonable. “You _do_ want me.”

He pulls his fingers back out of her panties, pausing only to wipe them off on her blouse as he brings his hand up to trace teasing fingers along the line of her jaw, and Karen turns her head, pulls back a little, and spits in his face.

He laughs in hers.

“So fucking brave,” he says, mockingly, and he pats her cheek condescendingly as he sits up. “You know that’s not going to save you.”

“Go to hell,” she snaps, but it feels like paper-thin defiance, because she has a dreadful sense that he’s right. She can feel it in the yawning chasm in her chest, and the sick sense of violation that’s rooted between her legs but that’s slithering its way out through her body, following the path that her orgasm blazed and leaving her feeling dirty and spoiled in its wake. Logically she knows that this isn’t on her. _Logically_ she knows she has nothing to be ashamed of, but logic doesn’t mean shit compared to the sick, heavy lump in her gut and the sensation of filth crawling under her skin. Her stomach lurches suddenly, and she has to fight down the urge to vomit.

She does fight it down, clenching her teeth and swallowing thickly, because she’s not giving him the fucking satisfaction. If she had no other reason, that would be motivation enough, she thinks, but it helps that it isn’t _just_ that. Underneath all this, all the humiliation and loathing and sickness, she’s still Karen fucking Jenson. She’s still the woman who beat this bastard, whose skill with chemicals was integral to him dissolving into a blood-soaked ruin, and nothing he can do to her will change that. Buried under the shame, there’s another type of burn; white hot and scorching and threatening to consume her from the inside out if she lets it.

She’s almost inclined to, if she gets to take him down with her. Small price to pay.

The brush of Deacon’s hand against the sluggishly bleeding marks in her neck drags her focus back to her current situation with an unpleasant jolt, and she eyes him warily.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” Deacon says, smiling down at her with bloodied teeth when her eyes snap back to his. “You spaced out a little there.”

“Surprisingly,” Karen says, with a terrible flatness to her voice that leaves it almost unrecognisable, “I’m not really inclined to chat with you right now.”

Deacon shrugs, “We’re not done,” he says. “You still need to choose. Are you joining me or are we going to have a talk about that little cure of yours?”

Karen bares her teeth at him in something that’s more snarl than smile and feels that cleansing burn intensify in her gut. 

“You should fetch my supplies,” she says, icily cold, and Deacon smirks.

“Anything for you, baby,” he says, mockingly, and he slides off the mattress.

Karen watches him saunter across the room, and she knows, with a bone deep certainty, what it is she needs to do to survive this. She’s needs to kill him. Again, and permanently this time. She needs a strategy.

She ruthlessly squashes down the whisper of doubt that wonders if she even can.


End file.
